


Snap goes the shutter

by ragball



Category: the GazettE (Band)
Genre: Break Up, Cameras, Dysfunctional Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Present Tense, fake real name usage, sudden and unexpected pet adoption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-19 00:47:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29742426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragball/pseuds/ragball
Summary: Heartbreak, cameras, and a kitten named Sorry.
Relationships: Kai/Uruha (the GazettE), Ruki/Uruha (the GazettE)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	1. Flashlit

It’s their third Christmas as a couple when he gets the camera.

It is a cute gift. Thoughtful, too, but more a present for Yutaka than for him, Kouyou thinks. He saw the model a few weeks back when Yutaka dragged him along to get some photos printed at the shop, insisting that Kouyou come along. He remembers inspecting it through the display cabinets, and Yutaka must have mistaken his boredom for interest – Kouyou hadn’t wanted a camera, and he doubts he will use it more than a handful of times, but he smiles and thanks his boyfriend anyway.

The camera feels small and clunky in his hands, and only comes with two ten-packs of film. Kouyou spends a little while fiddling with it. All in all it’s a sweet notion, Kouyou thinks, but also an annoying one. Yutaka knows that Kouyou doesn’t care for photography, that he’s never shown any interest in that particular artform, rejected it despite all of Yutaka’s efforts. This is just making him feel kind of bad about it. He knows Yutaka is trying his best to incite some spark of love for his preferred art, but it’s never worked before, and it isn’t going to work now.

Still, Kouyou isn’t one to complain, and when Yutaka strikes a pose and smiles, he raises the camera and snaps a photo. It comes out bad, and Yutaka looks weird and washed out, but the polaroid makes for a good memento. Kouyou folds it and keeps it in his wallet. After a few weeks he forgets that it’s there.

They break up some months later. 

It’s got nothing to do with the camera, or how Yutaka can’t seem to make time for them lately, or the little pointless arguments they have whenever either one of them opens their mouth to speak. It’s got nothing to do with anything, really. Much as he’d like to deny it, fact is that they have been growing apart for a long time, and Yutaka is the one to finally acknowledge it. 

Kouyou kind of wants to argue, if only to hold onto a pillar in his life. After three years of having someone to come home to, suddenly he’s about to find himself alone again, and he isn’t sure he knows how to handle it anymore.

He doesn’t say anything, though. “Let’s remain friends,” Yutaka tells him, “We have known each other for so long. I don’t want to lose you.”

He holds him as he says it. All in all it’s pointless; they have nothing in common, not really, and they were never really friends in the first place. Theirs was a relationship born out of physical attraction and not much more, pretty much doomed from the start, and it’s a wonder they have even kept it going for as long as they have. But Kouyou doesn’t refuse, just nods and lets his arms find their way across Yutaka’s back one more time. 

They don’t really meet up afterwards, just as Kouyou expected. When they do, it’s as a group, and they never go long without alcohol, the empty space between them too vast and too awkward with nothing to fill the silence outside of their friends’ chatter. And even though breaking up was his idea, Yutaka still continues to look at him in that way he always has, with a sort of carnal admiration that only ever led to one of two things depending on whether Kouyou chose to respond to it or not.

It only takes a couple nights of bad decisions and a few drinks too many before Kouyou realizes where it’s heading and decides that it would be for the best that they stop talking completely. So he unravels himself from Yutaka’s familiar arms, gets dressed, and leaves a note on the nightstand before going home. Yutaka doesn’t contact him again, after that. Doesn’t show up at his door to ask why, doesn’t call, or text. There’s only dead radio silence in the weeks that follow. He should have expected that. Should have wanted it, even, it was what he’d written before he left, and yet… 

Kouyou is not willing to admit that he’s lonely. There are plenty of people in his life, and it’s not like he doesn’t have friends; he does, and they’re great, but his friendships don’t tend to run particularly deep. The people he knows are not the type to pry into his personal life, and he’s not the type to tell. They wouldn’t appreciate hearing about his love life, so he lolls his head against his friend’s shoulder as he shrugs off the questions as to why Yutaka no longer joins them for drinks and football games like he used to. At least the sex was okay, even if he won’t get to experience that again.

It takes him nearly a month before he even realizes that Yutaka’s things are still in his apartment, and another few days of pretending they’re not there before deciding to do something about it. There are little reminders of Yutaka everywhere in his home – after all, three years together was nothing to scoff at. The extra clothes in his closet, ones that had been there so long that Kouyou didn’t remember they never belonged to him, standing out like a sore thumb against his own outfits. The smells that seem to permeate all his bedsheets, the bottles of aftershave in the bathroom, the extra toothbrush. The stray black hairs scattered on the floor in places he’s forgotten to vacuum. Photographs of the most random things, of them, where Yutaka decided that Kouyou’s walls and tables and shelves needed some extra life to them. 

And then, there are the folders. 

Yutaka has plenty of them. Most he’d keep at his own place, but a few had made it over and never left Kouyou’s apartment. None of the ones he’s found are full, containing random pictures of anything Yutaka had found interesting. Many of them Kouyou remembers. He had been there to see Yutaka snap a photo of something mundane, or Yutaka had shown it off to him, despite the disinterest. But… 

There’s no getting around the fact that a lot of those photos are of Kouyou. He’s known, of course, been asked permission countless times if Yutaka could take his picture, to be his model for a minute or two. Kouyou had allowed it plenty of times, because why not? It was harmless, if annoying, and saying no would only make Yutaka complain, and he hated when Yutaka complained. But there are just so many photos. Some of them, he doesn’t remember at all. Some of them look like they were taken while he was sleeping.

As he stares listlessly at a photo of his curled up legs, blankets shoved aside and Yutaka’s hand ghosting over finger-sized bruises that had been left on his thigh, Kouyou feels himself go more and more numb, and something acidic settles deep in his heart. 

He slams the folder shut and lets it fall out of his hands and onto the floor, and gets to work with removing the sheets off his bed. He throws them out, takes the car and buys new ones, along with a pack of beer that he drinks slowly throughout the evening. 

It wasn’t like he never knew, yet somehow Kouyou can’t help but feel dirty. They had little in common and so they barely ever talked, enjoying each other’s presence in quiet, knowing that breaking the silence would only annoy the other. Theirs was an almost exclusively physical relationship. Kouyou needed someone around to feel less alone, Yutaka needed… he wanted a model, and a lover. It worked out. They made it work by never acknowledging their differences. And three years later, here he is, sitting on his couch with an empty bottle in hand unable to shake the feeling of disgust curling up in him. Yutaka only kept him around for his body, for his looks. That much he always knew. It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.

But it does hurt, and Kouyou hates it.

There’s a trash bag standing in the hallway, ready to go, with all of Yutaka’s belongings inside, except for those picture folders. Those are still there, sitting lying on the floor where he dropped them. Their presence feels almost mocking. He should throw them out, but Kouyou doesn’t. Instead he grabs the bag and takes it to the nearest dumpster, showers, and goes to bed, burying himself in clean sheets that Yutaka has never touched him in. 

Falling asleep is harder than Kouyou hopes, and when he wakes up his arms are locked tight around one of his pillows, sun and freezing air pouring through the window that he’d forgotten to close.

He goes to work. He goes home, he sleeps, and wakes up. His life feels empty with nobody to share it with, and the folders are still sitting there, collecting dust but for when he picks them up and flips through them, eyes gliding past pictures of trees and familiar streets and his own body, page after page after page. When the weekend comes and his friends call him to ask if he’s up for the game, Kouyou declines; it’s unhealthy, sure, to stay indoors and alone with nothing but his own thoughts for company. It’s unhealthy to sit in a musty old bar, drinking and watching football, too. On the other line Akira sounds unconvinced, but Kouyou reassures him it’s fine. He'll probably come next weekend. Nothing to worry about.

Though the truth is that he simply doesn’t feel like doing anything. Getting out of the house is getting harder and harder every day, and even if he did go, Kouyou has nothing to talk about. The game? He wouldn’t be able to focus on it, and he has nobody he can talk to, not about this; not about how spent and empty and hurt he feels over something he had known for years but done nothing about. He opens the folders again. The plastic feels too smooth to his fingertips, almost slippery.

Gently, Kouyou pulls a photo from its sleeve and stares at it. This one he remembers, having been taken in a nearby park, their little group sitting on a bench under the shade of a large tree on a sunny day, and his friends’ faces are so unfocused that he can barely make them out. There’s only Kouyou’s own face staring back at him, looking straight at the lens, and he can recognize the moment his smile died, the annoyance in his own eyes. 

He used to remember that day with fondness; remembers how hot it had been, how they had decided to ditch the game in favour of going out to get some air. It had been good, they’d been laughing and poking fun at each other with fondness, talking about the game they’d walked out on; it had sucked anyway, from what little they had seen, and showed little promise of improving. And then Yutaka had pulled his camera out, deciding that he’d rather prefer his own company to that of his boyfriend, of their friends.

There are several pictures in the sleeve, all from later the same day. One of him with a prissy look to his face, sitting at the dining table with his head propped up on his hands, another of him wearing only a towel after stepping out of the shower. Kouyou had tried to give Yutaka the cold shoulder, thinking maybe it’d make him understand how sick Kouyou was getting of this behaviour, but all that had happened was that Yutaka snuck up on him and kissed his neck in apology. It had all gone to shit from there, and sure enough; there’s a photo of him there, asleep with his head in Yutaka’s naked lap, a fresh hickey on his neck and his hair still wet.

Instead of that bitter anger, however, this time Kouyou just feels a deep sadness shoot through him. He isn’t even sure why, but he needs to get away from it, clear his head. It’s only as he breathes in the crisp, polluted air of his street that he realizes just how stuffy his apartment really has become. He shakes it off and goes for a walk, and before Kouyou knows it he’s at the park again, alone this time. There’s no one there but him, odd for such a warm evening, and he sits down on the bench by the large tree and closes his eyes, letting a slight breeze blow over him. Maybe that’s what he should do, Kouyou thinks, go through Yutaka’s photographs and replace them one by one, making his own memories where they were taken. Maybe then he can take back the three years he’s lost to his own indifference. 

He almost regrets not calling up his friends to ask if they could join, though. The park is nice, but he wishes he wasn’t on his own, that he had someone he could talk to and share his thoughts with. A new relationship would be good. A healthy one, with someone who actually appreciates him, and doesn’t stick around just because he looks pretty and allows them to drive him into the mattress every night.

Or maybe he should just call up Akira, pour his heart out about everything that’s been going through his head. He’s known Akira for a long time, after all; he’s sure if anyone would listen it would be him. If only Kouyou wasn’t so damn scared of driving his friends away.

He stares at the sky for a short moment, before moving to stand up, mood soured once again. He needs to get home. Needs to go to the store and get something for dinner, as well as a whole lot of beer. He’ll need it if he’s gonna get through another week of this shit.

But then his foot bumps into something soft, and he stumbles. “Sorry,” he says reflexively, looking around to see – nobody that he accidentally walked into, but there is a black shadow scuttling away from him before stopping to look at him, its back standing tall and tail curved against its legs, large yellow eyes staring in alarm. Oh no, Kouyou realizes. He’s accidentally kicked a cat. As if his day can’t get any worse, he’s now possibly injured a small animal as well. “Sorry,” he repeats uselessly, lowering his eyes. The cat is still staring at him where it stands, body coiled like a spring ready to flee, but instead of running it just meows. Loudly.

Kouyou looks up again. The cat is coming closer, tail raised, cautiously sniffing at his ankles, and he holds his breath so as to not move and scare it away. It looks skinny, from what he can tell, but friendly. Maybe it’s a lost pet, he thinks, and raises a hand. It stares at him for a second before rubbing its face against his fingers, snaking around where he’s crouched on the ground and meowing. Kouyou finds himself smiling, and he doesn’t even notice.

It ends up following him home. Kouyou gives it some leftover meat from his fridge and watches the cat wolf it down, clearly starving, and he finds himself unsure of what to do. Clearly a pet; it didn’t hesitate a second before following him inside, but it has no collar, no name tag. Maybe a microchip? 

Staring at the cat licking the small plate on the floor, he bites on his fingers, and makes a decision. The cat looks up to him for more food and meows for attention when Kouyou talks into his phone instead. It barely resists when he lifts it, struggling a bit in his arms but beginning to purr when he strokes its head to keep it calm. It seems nervous to get into the car, but only tries to climb into his lap. “Hey, not now,” Kouyou says as he picks it up and sets it down in the passenger seat. “Sorry, but you need to stay there,” he tells the cat, then he turns the key in the ignition and drives to the nearest vet clinic.

It doesn’t stay on the seat throughout the drive, ears flat against its head as the car moves, and it doesn’t take long before it hops down to the floor. Kouyou has to coax it out gently once he’s parked, grateful that it doesn’t try to escape and flee as he carries it into the clinic, slightly embarrassed by how unprepared he is. The girl at the desk shoots him an alarmed look as he walks in the door before rushing to get something to keep the cat in.

There’s no chip. The cat is female and underweight but otherwise healthy. Hardly more than a kitten, too; the vet fills a bowl with a decent amount of food and confirms Kouyou’s suspicions that she was probably dumped somewhere when the owner didn’t want her anymore, and asks what he wants to do.

On the floor, the cat’s tail wags slowly as she eats. Kouyou knows nothing about caring for cats. He has nothing in his apartment to keep one content, no food or toys or furniture. They’d discussed it a couple times, earlier in their relationship. Kouyou had said he wanted to adopt a dog, but Yutaka never wanted to have any pets, said if he was to have any animal around it would be one he could keep in a tank and appreciate from a safe distance. They hadn’t even lived together.

The memory stings, knowing he’d deprived himself, that he has bent to Yutaka’s will so easily and so often over the years, but then the cat is purring as it rubs its head against Kouyou’s ankles, and he finds himself with a smile creeping across his mouth again. “I’m keeping her,” he says, barely thinking. “If that’s okay.”

At that, the vet looks about as happy as he feels, and she picks the cat up and congratulates him. He’s told he can buy the basics while he’s there, so he gets a carrier and a litterbox and a bag of litter, along with something akin to a starting package; there’s some food in there, a collar, and a few toys. The visit ends up costing him a pretty penny, but Kouyou doesn’t even mind the extra charge, not with the cat meowing loudly from inside the carrier as he brings it back to his car. He shushes her the entire way, apologizes and tells her it’s okay. They’ll be home soon.

Afterwards he goes to the store. He buys so many different brands of cat food that he barely remembers he needs to feed himself as well, and the beer he was intending to buy is completely forgotten. He doesn’t even register that Yutaka’s folders are still sitting on his table when he comes home, and he sleeps better that night than he has in a very long time. 

Settling in is easier for the cat than it is for him, Kouyou thinks; she spends her first few days sniffing all his furniture, jumping on his chairs and bed, ignoring him when Kouyou tries to shoo her from the kitchen counters. She meows loudly when she wants attention and rubs against his legs every chance she gets, but she moves so quietly around the house that sometimes he barely notices she’s there at all. It has been more than a couple times that he almost walks into her again, because he isn’t used to sharing his home with a small furry animal. “Sorry,” he exclaims each time, grateful that she meows as much as she does.

She doesn’t have a name, though. So far he mostly just calls out ‘kitty’ when he talks to her, or one of several embarrassing names he won’t want anyone hearing him say. It’s comforting, though, not being alone. It takes her some weeks, but she seems to learn Kouyou’s schedule pretty quickly, and she’s always there to greet him when he gets home from work. But the collar around her neck – thin and red, one he picked himself – still doesn’t carry her name, as she doesn’t have one. It’s one of the things he contemplates on and off every day; what would be a good name? It would have to be one that fits her, but also one that she hopefully responds to. Then again, cats generally don’t care much about their names, do they…

Somewhere nearby, a slight clattering noise catches his attention, and Kouyou freezes where he is standing in the middle of cleaning his kitchen. A second later and he hears it again, louder this time, the sound of something falling, in his bedroom. Dropping everything, he follows the noise only to see something go flying from the top of his closet, and he only barely manages to catch it before it hits the ground. Oh, he realizes, seeing the shadow of his black cat moving around his stuff. Kouyou has been using the top of his dresser to store things he wanted out of his sight, and it’s worked pretty well so far. How the cat managed to get up there he doesn’t know, but she must have been either very curious or very bored, and he isn’t sure if she’s deliberately shoving things to the floor or just accidentally pushing them around. “Kitty, no,” he calls out, and she pauses to look down at him, meowing. “Come down from there.” 

Surprisingly she does as he asks, jumping down onto his bookshelf and then to his bed. Kouyou guesses it was boredom, then, and he raises a hand to scratch her ear. “Sorry I left you alone,” he mutters and sits down on the bed next to her, letting her climb into his lap. Instead of curling up she stretches her head towards the crook of his elbow, sniffing at what he had saved from the fall, and it’s only then that Kouyou realizes he is holding the camera Yutaka gifted him months ago, dusty but otherwise just the way he’d left it. He had put it away some point after Christmas, having had no interest in using or even keeping it. “Oh,” Kouyou utters, and he wants to be angry at himself for feeling that again, the stab of loneliness and grief and – heartbreak, he can’t deny it – hitting him all at once.

He may not be completely alone, not with the company of a small, purring cat in his lap, but Kouyou can’t forget. He sets the camera down on the mattress, stroking the small, smooth patch of fur on the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry, you must think this is all…” he doesn’t know what to say. It’s pointless, he knows, spilling his thoughts to a cat that doesn’t understand a single word of what he’s saying, but there is some sort of comfort in that. Whatever secrets he tells, she will keep, and if she gets tired of listening – well, she’s a cat. She can always just get up and leave. 

So he talks. Tells her how he met Yutaka, all those years ago, how desperate he had been back then, the safety he’d felt at being in a relationship, even one like theirs. She purrs lowly, eyes relaxed but still looking at him even though he had been sure she would have fallen asleep by now, as he tells her how much he regrets letting himself stay with Yutaka. He knew he was only being used, yet still he decided to stay. He knew that there was no genuine love there. The camera had been a nice gift, and it wasn’t the cheapest present, but Kouyou had hated Yutaka’s photography, he really had. If Yutaka hadn’t realized, he was even blinder than Kouyou had allowed himself to be. 

“I’m really talking your ear off about this, huh,” he says as the cat’s eyes finally slide shut. “Sorry, kitty. I’ll make it up to you later.” 

They stay like that for a long time, Kouyou only moving once his neck begins to hurt from sitting hunched over, and he lifts the camera. He barely remembers how it works, having only really used it once, and that was months ago. It’s of a simple design, and Kouyou fumbles with the different settings and the teller that shows how much film is left inside. Nine, it tells him, out of ten. There should be another box of film somewhere up there, or maybe it’s in the clutter on the floor after having fallen from the top of his closet. 

Either way, that can wait, Kouyou thinks. “Hey, kitty,” he says gently, “sorry, but…” 

She meows a little in protest as he picks her from his lap, standing up so she can sit down in the warm spot where he’s been sitting. She doesn’t complain, circling the spot and pushing the blanket flatter with her paws, before settling down again, and he smiles.

Then he raises the camera and takes a picture.

The shutter is noisy: the flash is too bright and sudden, and the cat looks up at him in alarm, but the photo that’s printing is smooth and white. He apologizes again, setting the camera down as he waits for the picture to fade in.

Once it does, Kouyou can’t help but think that maybe it wasn’t such a bad gift after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was just supposed to be a fluffy oneshot, you know. and then it got away from me :(


	2. Blitzed out

The picture adorns his workstation a few days later. There was never anything he had wanted to look at while working, especially not photos, so it is the first picture he puts up. There has never been anything in Kouyou’s life that he would want or need to look at every now and then while at work, so his desk has been mostly void of personal touches or memorabilia of any kind. Halfway through the day a colleague takes note of the picture, expressing surprise that he has a pet, and asks what he named it. It’s only then that Kouyou remembers that he didn’t.

He spends the evening sitting on the couch with the cat purring in his lap, television on even though he’s not really watching it. “Sorry I never gave you a name after all, kitty,” he says softly, apropos of nothing, her ear flicking at the words. She doesn’t stop purring. Kouyou keeps thinking about it throughout the night; thinks of acceptable names for such a small, soft creature, then considers the sharp parts she contains as well, her claws and bright white teeth. He weighs the options against one another until he wakes to the sound of his alarm going off, and realizes that it’s morning and he has a crick in his neck from having slept on the couch. He takes a bath that he doesn’t have time for and comes to work late. They’re used to Kouyou coming in late anyway; he’ll just work extra hours to make up for it.

When Kouyou looks away from the screen to rest his eyes he’ll find himself just looking at the picture of the cat. He finds himself smiling without realizing it. 

And so he takes more pictures. He lets her out to walk on the grass and watches as she chases bugs and faraway birds, snapping picture after picture to bring to work and hang up. Nine photos hang on his station, now, and the camera roll is empty. He replaces it with the second and last one, and wonders how to best use the little film he has left. Ten pictures isn’t a lot. Sure, he could go out and buy more. But he doesn’t want to. 

Instead he flicks the little switch that determines if the flash is on or off, picks the cat up and walks to the bathroom. She wobbles precariously on his shoulders, claws digging in as she looks around curiously, tail swishing back and forth with excitement as Kouyou stands before the mirror and takes a picture of them. 

He realizes belatedly that he probably should have cleaned his bathroom first. Realizes that his hair is an uneven mess, that his clothes are wrinkled and the overfilled laundry basket is visible behind him. It’s not a decent picture to hang up anywhere, much less the place where he works, but as the picture fades in, Kouyou decides he doesn’t care.

Then he dials Akira and asks if they’re planning to go out again anytime soon. It has been a while since he joined them, and he ignores the concerned tone in Akira’s voice when he asks how he’s been doing, why he hasn’t heard from Kouyou in so long.

“I just didn’t feel like going,” Kouyou admits as he sits down on his couch, holding a hand out to the cat, an invitation for scratches that she eagerly accepts. “I didn’t feel like anything. And I’m sorry. But I’m better now.”

“We were worried about you,” Akira says, with that quiet kind of understanding that Kouyou has never been able to wrap his head around. “Does it have to do with Yutaka?”

Had it been a few weeks earlier, Kouyou would have waved the question off. He might not have outright lied, if only because he doesn’t trust his lies to be believable, but he definitely wouldn’t have given a straight answer. Now he falls quiet as he realizes that he’s not afraid of saying the truth. “Yeah,” he says. “It was. But I’m better now.”

When he goes out to meet his friends again for the first time in what feels like forever, he feels somehow freer than ever. There is a notable gap in their group without Yutaka among them, but then again, Yutaka always liked to leave that gap open, so maybe things aren’t that different after all, Kouyou thinks. Then he stops thinking about it, stops thinking about Yutaka at all as Akira throws an arm across his shoulders and pulls Kouyou further into their group where he belongs. The only thing he regrets that night is leaving the camera at home; it would be nice to snap a picture now, to bring a memento of this night with him to work. To bring a little piece of his friends with him, something he can look at when he’s sitting in front of his monitor and his mind slips back to the three years he wasted, trying to cling to something he wanted to think of as to love. He wants to look upon his friends’ faces and remember that there are people who will listen when he talks.

But he remembers all too well the way Yutaka used to disrupt their peace when would suddenly withdraw from the group to take a photo. So instead he gets dressed and stuffs the camera in a bag, crouching down to the cat. “Sorry, but I’m going out for a while,” Kouyou says, and she rubs her cheek against his fingers when he holds out a hand to her. He pets her once and goes for a walk, even though the sun is setting and the temperature is starting to drop. 

Finding something to photograph is difficult, Kouyou realizes quickly. The world outside his apartment is either too much or too mundane, and the people circling him are strangers that mean nothing to him, and he only has enough film for nine more shots. He can’t decide how to best use them, not when he wants to make them count. 

He wonders how Yutaka decided what was worthy of keeping. Kouyou doesn’t have a photographer’s eye, but he does want to find something to bring home. Some kind of memory. He stops outside a convenience store and points the camera up at an aging billboard, searching for something – he doesn’t know what, yet. Interesting shapes. Patterns in the landscape. The camera doesn’t have a zooming function, but he imagines that if it did, he would be able to take a picture of the model’s face, perhaps zoom in enough to find tears on the billboard’s surface. 

That doesn’t happen. Instead he is pulled out of his thoughts as the doors to the store slide open, the familiar sound of a cheap plastic bag noisily swaying side to side reaching his ears, alongside that of two sets of shoed feet. A familiar voice calls his name in surprise. Kouyou lowers the camera and finds himself facing Akira once again, and there’s some kind of question in his eyes that Akira seems to find the answer to before he has even made the decision to ask. “Hey,” he says instead, as Kouyou tucks the camera back into his bag.

“Hey,” Kouyou repeats back at him, unsure if he is supposed to feel like he’s been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to or if it’s real shame that is trying its best to wash over him. He shrugs it off and instead turns his attention to the stranger standing next to Akira. The other man is shorter than them both, his features delicate but not quite soft, and he is very, very attractive. It doesn’t take long before Kouyou realizes he’s totally checking the stranger out, but he’s oblivious to the stranger doing the same to him as he snaps his gaze back to Akira and asks, “What’s up?”

A small, worried thing has taken hold of Akira’s face, but it’s gone almost as soon as it appeared. Akira answers that not much is up, lifts the bag and says he was just doing a snack run. Realized he had run out of cup noodles and protein bars, decided to stock up, and ran into an old friend while he was at it. The old friend – the stranger – introduces himself. Matsumoto Takanori, he says. Nice to meet you, he says. His voice is deep and smooth and sounds nothing like Yutaka's at all.

They walk together from the store, all three of them, even though they all live in different directions. That’s fine. Kouyou hasn’t taken a photo yet, and Akira enjoys being on the move, and Takanori tells them he is new to the city. It gets darker, and the lamplight above them grows brighter. Kouyou has never been big on doing the talking, and tonight is no different, but while Takanori talks a mile a minute, he still prompts Kouyou to speak, asks him little questions like where do you come from and what do you do and what cologne do you wear while Akira looks more and more uncomfortable between them. 

Eventually Akira slaps a hand on Kouyou’s shoulder and announces, “Alright guys, think I’m done being the third wheel for the night.” Takanori looks amused, but the only thing Kouyou really registers is the fact that Akira is leaving. He reaches for Akira before he has the chance to go anywhere, tells him to wait, and pulls out the camera that he had just barely not forgotten about.

Akira looks vaguely surprised, but Takanori’s grin only widens as he takes the picture, and a moment later the camera produces a white-filmed photograph that Kouyou takes hold of before the camera goes back into the bag. Akira whistles, then says, “Okay then, good night to you both.” 

This time Kouyou lets him leave, and he is too preoccupied with watching the image slowly start to appear on the film to catch the words when Takanori says, “Well, I think I just met the man of my dreams.”

Kouyou doesn’t really dream anymore, and he hasn’t needed to listen to attractive people in a long time, so he only looks up and says, “Huh?” 

“Nothing,” Takanori says, and this time he has the grace to look embarrassed. Then he joins Kouyou in waiting for the photo. 

The picture comes out bad, in the end – but Akira’s friendly face is pleasant, even if the bright flash gives his skin an almost unnatural glow. Next to him Takanori looks anything but the stranger he was half an hour ago, and the row of streetlights form a tantalizing pattern behind them, the clear sky above an open abyss. It’s weirdly beautiful, Kouyou decides immediately. Even though he had wanted a picture of Akira in his element, one where he’s smiling and comfortable and surrounded by friends, this is somehow better. He looks funnier like this, more like the kid he used to be when Kouyou first got to know him.

Takanori tilts his head appreciatively. “You’re good at this,” he says, and Kouyou gives him a look of slight disbelief, because he knows he isn’t. “So can I have your number?”

“My number?” Kouyou repeats back at him. 

It’s then that he puts two and two together, and something in him panics. He does want to say yes. Takanori is smaller, louder and softer-looking than Yutaka, and absolutely attractive – but the wound is still fresh, and standing there with the polaroid in his hands, Kouyou can’t help but recall all the pictures Yutaka took of him over the years. Remembers being bare before Yutaka’s lens, remembers photos that he was never awake or sober for. Remembers the folders that are still sitting in the apartment somewhere. He hasn’t even thrown them out. Why didn’t he throw them out?

His lips are parted, wanting to say something, but he doesn’t know what. Saying yes is impossibly difficult, but a no is too brutal, and feels like a lie. Kouyou doesn’t know how to lie in a way that is believable, so instead he says nothing and only utters, “Um.” This time the shame succeeds; it hits him like a tidal wave, and he lowers his eyes and resists the urge to crumple the picture up in his fist, instead sliding it carefully inside his breast pocket so he can’t ruin it. He doesn’t want to tarnish Akira’s puzzled, boyish face, or the memory of a calm, cool night out with his oldest and newest maybe-friend who just asked him for his number.

At least Takanori doesn’t pry. “Guess not,” he says, and manages to only sound mildly disappointed. “Good night, yeah? Hope I’ll see you around.”

Kouyou doesn’t even reply. He just stands there, watching as Takanori leaves, and part of him wants to call out to him. Wants to jog to catch up to Takanori and tell him his number because he may be a stupid fool, but he’s not so stupid he can’t recognize a chance for what it is. He wants to ask if Takanori wants to go out for coffee or something, one of these days. He doesn’t. Instead he pulls the camera out from his bag one more time, turns the flash off, and takes a picture of Takanori’s retreating form. Only when Kouyou comes home does he dare look at the polaroid, and as the cat meows and walks excitedly between his legs he decides that it’s beautiful.

He decides immediately that he wants to see Takanori again.

The next time Akira calls it’s to invite Kouyou for lunch and not to the game, and he cradles his mug as he waits for the ball to drop. Whatever the ball is, he doesn’t know yet. Akira has never been the type of person to involve himself in matters that have nothing to do with him, and Kouyou has never been one to talk about himself at length, so when Akira finally brings up the burning question that is Yutaka, Kouyou is almost surprised.

“The camera is from him, isn’t it?” Akira asks, and Kouyou nods. “Thought as much.” 

After all, he knows that Kouyou detested Yutaka for lugging a camera around everywhere, so it must have been strange to see him pick up Yutaka’s hobbies after the breakup. “It was a gift,” Kouyou says, and then adds helpfully, “I have seven pictures left.” 

Akira doesn’t respond to that, instead choosing to stir his own cup of tea, something with such a strong scent of ginger that Kouyou can smell it even from where he is sitting. Akira takes a sip. Then he says, “I worry about you.”

Kouyou wants to say that he shouldn’t, because while he knows that Akira cares for him, he doesn’t enjoy the thought of someone getting worked up over his well-being, especially not someone who cares as much as Akira. Convincing him not to care is an impossible task, but he tries anyway. “You don’t need to worry. Things are good.” 

Sure enough, Akira does not look convinced. “What did Takanori do after I left?”

This time it’s Kouyou’s turn to hesitate. The crestfallen silence pouring out of him is enough for Akira to know exactly what is up, he can tell. Kouyou has never been easy to read, or so he’s been told, but Akira is the one exception to that rule, having learned long ago to read the signs, however subtle. And theirs is not a one way street; Kouyou is just as well versed in reading the minute changes in the lines of Akira’s shoulders to know just what he’s worried about.

Kouyou doesn’t care, or perhaps he cares too much as he tells Akira not to tell Takanori anything about his relationship with Yutaka, or the camera, or his recent breakup. “It’s too soon,” Akira insists, but Kouyou shakes his head. He knows it’s too soon, he’s felt it himself in the way his throat clogged up with words he didn’t dare speak when Takanori asked, and it hurts to remember. But he doesn’t want to care. The guy is hot, and cute, and interested, and he doesn’t remind him of Yutaka. And Kouyou wants to get to know him, he really does.

“Invite him to the next game?” he pleads.

“Takanori hates football,” Akira says. “And he doesn’t like to drink.”

“So?” Kouyou says with conviction, because Akira doesn’t drink either – a single shot is enough to knock him under the table, so he only orders alcohol free drinks when they’re out – and it has never stopped him from having a good time.

Akira rolls his eyes in the end and says he’ll give it a try, but he can’t promise anything. Kouyou goes home and the cat stretching across his legs is the only thing keeping him from curling up anxiously as he wonders if he’ll see Takanori again or if he blew it.

The next day at work, Kouyou stares at his polaroids for a bit too long. He stares at the picture of Takanori’s retreating form and wonders what Yutaka would think if he knew Kouyou was actually using the camera he gave him. He wonders where Yutaka is now. What he’s doing. If he has found someone else to model and pretend with, or if he’s genuinely happier with a person who actually fits him in the ways Kouyou never could. If he ever wanted something genuine at all.

He thinks about Yutaka’s pictures and wonders why he hasn’t thrown them away, but when he comes home and sees the folders sitting on the living room table he doesn’t want to so much as go near them. Then the cat meows for his attention. Kouyou tells her sorry for ignoring her and moves to scratch her ears, and he’s grateful that he isn’t alone to deal with this. He told Akira that things were good. He thought he was honest at the time, but maybe it had been a lie after all.

The next time Kouyou goes out to drink, Takanori is there.

He looks out of place in their booth, nursing a virgin cocktail and only periodically glancing up at the television with a sort of puzzled, disinterested wonder like he can’t figure out why all these people even care. Still, Kouyou is glad that he came, and Takanori focuses most of his attention on him throughout the game, so much that Kouyou almost forgets to watch it himself. He still talks a lot, but now his voice is less sure of itself, which Kouyou assumes is because of the setting. He guesses it’s hard to get to know someone in this setting when you hate football, and he wonders for a moment what Takanori is like when he’s in his own element. Then one of Kouyou’s friends cries out in disappointment as a player on their team fails to score a goal and then thought is gone.

Akira is the one to voice the question they’re all thinking, and as soon as he suggests getting out of there Takanori lets out a sound that has clearly been building up for a long time, moaning, “Fuck, yes.”

It makes Kouyou crack a smile, and he finds it funny that Takanori even bothered to stay as long as he has. They end up in the park again, not much later. The sun is still up and even though the temperature has dropped, Kouyou can’t really feel the cooling air on his bare arms. The beers he’s drunk have warmed him. They all seem warm and happy like this, in fact, and Kouyou is glad to see it. Takanori is a new addition, but this is what he had missed for so long.

He takes the camera from his bag and snaps a photo. His friends are laughing at some stupid joke Akira told, and even though Takanori still looks a little out of place among them, he fits in perfectly next to Akira, and maybe even next to himself. It’s a nice thought, if a risky one.

And then the magic is ruined as one of them exclaims, “The hell?” 

They had all gone a long time without having to be plagued by the sudden flash of a camera going off, so Kouyou understands. He really does. And he should have expected it, but somehow Kouyou doesn’t see it coming when he’s called out on becoming a new Yutaka, and he can’t even explain himself, instead pressing his fingers into the sharper edges of the camera as something withers inside of him. Then Akira slaps his shoulder and says something stupid to divert the attention away, and it helps.

But Takanori is staring at him curiously. He doesn’t even wait for the laughter to die down before he asks, “Who’s Yutaka?”

There are several answers to Takanori’s question. A jackass with a camera, one of them says. Another shrugs his shoulders and says it doesn’t matter, he doesn’t hang with us anymore; Akira is the only sober one among them, so his answer is the most eloquent. A guy who used to be part of the group, a photographer who decided he had better ways to spend his time. When Takanori asks why he’s not with them anymore, Kouyou feels like the question is directed at him. It probably is, but he doesn’t answer, and instead he finds himself wondering if the hurt look around his mouth is as visible as it feels. 

It must be, because Takanori stops asking after that. 

Later, it’s just the three of them again, once more walking together like they have any business going whatever random direction they’re headed. “How long have you been photographing for?” Takanori asks suddenly. Kouyou feels like he’s almost sober by now. He wishes he wasn’t. 

“It’s not really something I do,” he replies vaguely. “I just wanted to put up some pictures at work.”

Next to him Akira makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like one of surprise, and Takanori nods in understanding. Then he cocks his head to the side and stops, saying, “Hey Kouyou, lend me your camera. Stand over there. Okay, good. Now don’t move.”

Akira asks, “What are you doing?” and there’s a worried note in his voice that Kouyou isn’t too sure Takanori knows him well enough to make out. He does as he’s told, because this is familiar, and he’s curious and he wants Takanori to like him. Because there is still the gentle buzz of an alcohol-induced recklessness pumping through his veins. 

When Takanori tells him to hold out his hand, he does, waiting with baited breath as Takanori considers the shot. Takanori tells him to turn his head that way and to tilt his face up, and Kouyou finds himself looking at the darkened sky. There is the familiar click as the shutter goes off, but no flash, and then Takanori says, “Good. Okay, thanks.”

Kouyou remains staring at the sky. Wonders if there are stars out there tonight, ones he cannot see for the light pollution. Takanori looks pleased with himself, and Akira looks concerned, and when the picture appears in the white film Takanori studies Kouyou again and asks if he has ever considered modelling.

The wound that is Yutaka is still healing, and Kouyou sets his jaw. He finds himself wondering what it’ll take for him to give Takanori a piece of his mind when he asks questions like that, but as hurtful as it is, Takanori’s words are ultimately innocent. He doesn’t know shit. He can’t possibly know shit when no one has told him, and now there are only six more pictures left in the camera. So he thanks Takanori for coming tonight and goes home, and it is only once the door closes behind him that Kouyou feels an indescribable horror rising up in his chest. It won’t let him breathe for a long moment, even as the cat paces around him worriedly and releases a series of distressed sounds. He can’t hear her voice at first, but when he starts registering the noises they ground him in the present, in reality. He’s sitting against the door of his apartment with his knees to his chest, and Yutaka isn’t there. 

She’s so soft when he eventually reaches out a hand towards her. There’s comfort in knowing that Kouyou isn’t alone in this, even if his only company is a cat that doesn’t understand what is going on. But Takanori doesn’t know. He can’t be faulted for asking, or for wanting to take his picture, or for wanting to know about a time before he ran into Akira at a convenience store.

Eventually Kouyou gains the courage to pry the camera from the bag again, pull out the picture Takanori had taken, and it’s good. He can’t say it’s beautiful, because it’s him in the photo. But it’s good. The garish lights of a pachinko parlour surround his head like a halo, and he can barely recognize himself in the photograph; maybe it’s the angle, maybe it’s the darkness, the fact that he’s little more than a silhouette pinned against the nightlife. It looks nothing like the pictures Yutaka ever took of him, anyway.

Kouyou picks the cat up and quiets her when she protests in his arms. He needs her to be close, so he sets her on the couch, lifting Yutaka’s folders from where they’ve been dropped carelessly to the floor. He sets Takanori’s polaroid on the table and opens a folder, letting the cat climb in his lap and curl up, and pores over the photos once again. Sees his own body in Yutaka’s pictures over and over and over, before glancing back at Takanori’s picture, at his form standing dark and elegant framed against blinding neon signs. They’re nothing alike. Nothing at all. He slams the folder shut and apologizes when the cat wakes with a start, almost springing from his lap.

The next time they meet Takanori doesn’t ask about the camera, or Yutaka, or modelling. Instead he asks if Kouyou wants to get out of there, and Kouyou finds himself accepting, despite it all. He feels a little resentful towards his friends after how they reacted, even though he doesn’t really blame them for it, and so Kouyou feels no guilt over ditching the game to go drinking with Takanori instead. They find a different bar, one that’s small and quiet, and Takanori tells him it’s his treat.

Kouyou almost wants to spite him by ordering the bar’s top shelf champagne, but he’s not that much of an asshole, and asks instead for a mid-range whisky. Takanori orders a virgin drink this time as well, one that’s red and fancy and smells disgustingly sweet, and he only smiles when Kouyou steals a sip to taste it. It’s cherry flavoured and horribly synthetic, but not bad.

They talk softly to one another for what seems like hours but is probably just a single hour at most. Kouyou speaks more than he normally does, but only slightly. The alcohol makes him more talkative, and Takanori tells stories and asks questions he finds himself more than willing to answer. He is halfway through his second glass and there’s a lull in the conversation when Takanori’s hand comes to rest on top of his own, voice small and apologetic as he says, “I’m sorry about last time.” 

Kouyou doesn’t look up to meet his eyes, unable to tear his gaze from their hands. Takanori’s hand is small and soft, smoother and less bony than his own. He finds himself wondering if he uses some kind of hand lotion before he registers the words and asks, “What do you mean?”

Takanori squeezes his hand and pulls away, and it’s only then that Kouyou looks up. “I don’t know what, but something I did clearly hurt you.”

“Oh.”

They both grow silent for a while. Takanori’s glass is empty, but he still swirls it around like there is more than just a few drops left. Then he asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” And then, “Yes.” Because he does want Takanori to know something, because he likes him, and he knows Takanori likes him back, but that doesn’t mean that Kouyou want to say it. He hasn’t told anyone other than the cat, and last he checked Takanori was human, even if his voice is deep and throaty like the warm noise his cat makes when Kouyou scratches her ear just right. But Takanori is human, just as capable of judging, and leaving, and hurting as anyone else Kouyou has ever known, even unintentionally. And Takanori has hurt him once, out of innocent ignorance because Kouyou told him nothing. Which is the root of the problem. “Yutaka was my boyfriend,” he says eventually, “for three years. We broke up in spring.”

It’s nothing like a dam being released. Not even close; the story comes slow and stilted even after he begins to open up, and he needs two strong drinks in him before he can even think about the photos again, much less talk about them. Kouyou doesn’t like people getting angry around him, gets nervous at aggression, especially from people he’s attracted to. But when Takanori swears something filthy and vile it somehow manages to sound more charming than anything, and he can’t help but laugh.

Later, Takanori walks him home. He doesn’t ask to come in, only leaves him at his doorstep and says thank you, and Kouyou is the one who holds onto his hand and leans down to kiss him on the cheek before Takanori leaves. He falls asleep on the couch fifteen minutes later without even getting out of his clothes, too exhausted to bother with any kind of routine other than petting the cat and apologizing for coming home so late. He’s become some kind of a deadbeat dad, Kouyou finds himself thinking, then he laughs at the absurdity of it, because she’s a cat and not his daughter. If there’s even much difference between the two. 

It’s his last coherent thought of the night before he’s dead to the world.


	3. Sorry

When Kouyou goes to work next week, he rearranges the pictures. He swallows the bitter memory of his friends chastising him for photographing them and pins the polaroid carefully to the bottom of the board. The photo Takanori took goes up as well, and he finds himself wondering if it’s visibly him. If any of his colleagues would be able to recognize Kouyou for himself, or if they would only see the vague human shape outlined in front of the blinking billboards.

He runs a finger subconsciously over Takanori’s flash-white face and realizes belatedly that he never gave him his number in the end. He wonders if it’s too late, after everything he told him when they were in that bar together. But he remembers how Takanori listened. Remembers how he walked him home afterwards, and the look in his eyes as he bid Kouyou goodnight. Kouyou doesn’t know him well enough to recognize happiness on the frame of Takanori’s face, but he wants to believe he saw something close that night.

There is no game that weekend. Akira calls him to tell him he’s sick, and Kouyou tells him to get well and refrains from asking for Takanori’s number. He picks up the camera and goes for another walk, getting a bout of inspiration as a crow caws from where it sits on a power line overhead. It’s too far up to get a good shot with the polaroid camera, so he enters a nearby convenience store and buys some bread. The crow watches him silently from where it sits, a black shape against a cloud-pale sky, but in the end he only manages to attract pigeons. That’s fine too, Kouyou decides. He takes a photo of the birds as they crowd around him, focusing on the piebald pigeon that’s hopped onto his shoe, and watches in something akin to awe as they all take to the air at once, spooked by the flash and the click of the shutter.

When he comes home he finds the cat asleep in his bed, and she doesn’t stir even as he lifts the camera and takes a photo of her once again. Four photos left. Kouyou pins them to the board at his workstation the next day, then pauses to stare at the pigeon. It’s brown and white, different from the rest of the mostly grey birds huddling on the ground around it, and Kouyou can’t help but think of Yutaka’s photographs – the ones portraying landscapes and animals – because they had been beautiful in that mundane, everyday sort of way that nature itself is. The way Yutaka is beautiful. Except for when he smiles and turns Kouyou’s world upside down all over again. 

Kouyou frowns. Plucking the picture from the board again, he stares at it; the more he looks, the more he can see Yutaka, like he’s the one behind the camera instead of Kouyou. Like it’s not his work at all. He shakes off the thought and takes all the pictures down, rearranging them again so that all the pictures of the cat line the top of the board, and as he pins the picture of the pigeons in the corner Kouyou remembers how he hasn’t given his cat a name yet, that the little name tag in the carrier of her collar remains blank, and he apologizes to her in his head.

He finds a list of popular pet names, the first site that pops up when he searches for one, and reads the names to her one by one. She tilts her head to the side but doesn’t respond differently to any of them, and eventually she loses interest and goes back to crying over her empty food bowl instead. Kouyou sighs. “How am I going to name you if you won’t tell me which one you would like?” he asks, running a hand down her smooth back. “Sorry. I get it. You’re hungry, and you don’t care.”

She meows at him then, and Kouyou fills her bowl. He grabs the camera and considers snapping a photo of her as she’s distracted by the food, but hesitates. Wonders if his next photo will come out looking more Yutaka’s than his own again, if he’ll even want to keep photographing if it does. Only four photos left, Kouyou reminds himself, and sets the camera down. He picks at his hair. Pulls at his split ends, wonders if his co-workers will respect him less if he were to show up to work tomorrow with a different hair colour. Most of them already barely talk to him as it is, and it seems that every time he changes his hair, he has to work extra hard to impress them. For the past year or so he’s kept it various shades of blonde. Maintaining it has been hell, but it was fun at first, made him feel lighter and younger and wilder, and Yutaka loved it.

One way or another it all comes back to Yutaka, Kouyou thinks bitterly. He pets the cat one more time, leaves the camera on the counter and gets in the car. He needs to get out of there, for a while. And he needs a haircut, and a dye job, and he doesn’t even know what new colour he’d like his hair to be, but he doesn’t care. He’ll figure it out on the way. A brighter shade of blonde is the first he considers, but he quickly decides against it. Thinks about dying his hair a simple, straight black, or maybe adding highlights. By the time Kouyou steps into the salon he’s tired of thinking about it and flips through magazines while he waits to be served. He lands on a simple but lovely chestnut brown, one that’s not too far off from his own natural hair colour, nor too far from how it used to be before he met Yutaka for the first time.

The sun has gone down by the time he walks out, hair trimmed and dyed, and he feels like a new man, somehow. Freer in a way he hasn’t felt in a while, and he spends a few hours walking around the shopping district. He’s got a new look, after all; why not freshen up his wardrobe too?

He’s lugging around three bags from two different stores when he spots a familiar figure walking out of a shop, also carrying various bags. His hair is different too, lighter than it was last time Kouyou saw him, and Kouyou only realizes he’s stopped in his tracks when someone bumps into him. He apologizes reflexively, too distracted to be embarrassed. He wants to jog up to Takanori and greet him, ask him how he’s doing, what he’s shopping for, if he would like his number, because Kouyou actually remembers this time, but he looks different. They both do. Maybe it’s not Takanori at all, but someone else entirely, or maybe he has a secret evil twin that he didn’t tell Kouyou about. The thought is ridiculous, but not impossible.

Then Takanori looks up – because it is Takanori, Kouyou can tell when their eyes meet – and he raises a hand in greeting. “You dyed your hair,” Takanori points out, “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Kouyou gestures to Takanori’s hair, also different from how he remembers him. “Same to you,” he says, and Takanori runs a hand through the locks almost self-consciously. “It looks nice.”

He gets an appreciative hum in response. Takanori keeps looking at him, and Kouyou wonders if he does look that different, if Takanori really doesn’t recognize him like this; it makes him unsure of himself, somehow. Maybe he made a bad decision when he chose the colour, and he should have stayed blonde after all. But then Takanori asks, “Do you have anywhere you need to be later?” and Kouyou’s thoughts come to a standstill. 

He doesn’t, not really. The cat has already been fed, and he’d only been killing time by this point. The only thing he needs to do later is sleep, so he shakes his head no and asks why. Then Takanori smiles. “I’m not done yet, and I was wondering if you would like to join me.”

Kouyou would like to join him, in fact he would love to, but he doesn’t say that. Instead he just nods, and they fall into step next to one another, and while he has long since learned that Takanori loves to shop, Kouyou is still surprised to see it in action. Takanori has only been in town for about half a year, yet he already seems to know all there is to the shopping district. 

“I need to know these sorts of things,” Takanori tells him as he inspects an oversized, minimalist hoodie, lifting it up against his frame. “I’m a designer. It’s part of the job to pay attention to the latest trends.”

He’s surprised he doesn’t know that. It seems like such a basic piece of information, what someone does for a living, yet Kouyou can’t recall ever asking. Takanori certainly hasn’t told him before. “Really?” he asks, and then adds, “Don’t you make what you want to design, set your own trends?”

Takanori looks up at him at that, looks at him in such a way that Kouyou doesn’t know what to make of it, then hangs the hoodie back on its rack. “The industry doesn’t work that way, but if I were my own boss, then maybe. If we knew that it would sell.”

It’s obvious enough that Kouyou knows nothing about these things, so he lets Takanori school him despite not being particularly interested. He watches Takanori talk but eventually stops listening to the words; his voice is pleasant, deep and with a mumbling quality to it like he has forgotten how to speak up and instead talks from the back of his throat, like a purring cat. He imagines sitting on his couch with Takanori’s head in his lap, imagines running hands through his hair and marvelling at the texture. It looks soft, from where he’s standing.

But Kouyou does notice when Takanori’s voice trails off, and he hears every word when he complains, “You’re not even listening.”

At that, Kouyou’s eyes shoot up in alarm, the mental image torn from him instantly. “I’m sorry,” Kouyou says too quickly. His tongue trips over the words, and he wonders if he blew it this time, diverts his attention to a shirt that’s fallen off its hanger, picking it from the floor and brushing invisible dust off. “I’m sorry.” 

“I don’t really enjoy talking to a wall,” Takanori tells him. “If you don’t care, just let me know.”

Kouyou doesn’t dare look at him, busying himself with getting the shirt back on the rack. The hanger is one of cheap, smooth plastic and the shirt’s design is too intricate to match, and the various straps keep sliding off. He just nods in response, hating the idea of making Takanori of all people waste his breath. But Takanori doesn’t berate him. Instead he plucks another hanger from the rack and tells him, “This would look good on you.”

Maybe he’s even right. Kouyou pulls his hands free from the shirt he’s fiddling with and takes what Takanori is holding out to him. It’s a sweater, and it looks too broad even for him, Kouyou thinks, but it looks comfortable and has a warm, soft texture that feels pleasant to the tips of his fingers. “I’ll try it on,” he says shakily, and Takanori nods. 

The sweater slips off his shoulders, leaving them bare, and Kouyou figures it must be designed that way. It’s not that big a size and he can’t imagine it would look like this without purpose. It looks good though, Kouyou thinks, even if it’s weird to have his shoulders and neck exposed like this while his arms stay fully covered, long sleeves almost reaching his knuckles.

Outside of the changing room, Takanori calls out to him. “Can I see?” he asks, and Kouyou gives an affirmative answer before pulling the curtain aside, rubbing his arm as Takanori gives him a long, appreciative stare. “It’s good on you,” Takanori says. “You should get it.”

He ends up buying the sweater only partially because Takanori threatens to buy it for him if he doesn’t. But mostly it’s because it’s comfortable, and fashionable, and it matches his dark hair well. “You must be good at your job,” he tells Takanori as they leave the store. It’s intended as a compliment, but Takanori shrugs.

“Of course I am. I have great taste. Of course, it helps that you’re smoking hot,” he says like it’s nothing, but there’s an amused set to his mouth like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Pick the right model and you can make anything look good. I learned that early.”

Kouyou is silent for a moment, intensely aware that Takanori is complimenting him but unsure of the rest. “The sweater’s nice.”

“The sweater is nice,” Takanori agrees. “And it’s very nice on you.” He adjusts the strap of the bag on his shoulder and gives Kouyou a cocky smirk that looks out of place set against the hopeful look in his eyes. “So can I have your number?”

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” Kouyou tells him, and there is a fraction of a second where he’s afraid that Takanori is offended, but then Takanori only laughs and agrees that yes, he is, so he must be well aware. Kouyou rolls his eyes and holds out his hand; “Give me your phone,” he says. He has been meaning to do this for weeks, anyway. 

The evening ends with them parting ways, and when Kouyou closes the door behind him, he has to stand there a moment and just smile. The camera is still on the counter where he left it, and the cat walks between his legs as he picks it up and looks at the teller once again. Four photos. But it’s been a good night, and Kouyou looks different, feels refreshed and accomplished and almost giddy.

Despite the fact that it’s late and he should be dressing down rather than up, Kouyou pulls the sweater Takanori picked out for him from its bag and puts it on, grabs the camera and takes a photo of himself in the mirror of his bathroom. He pets the cat as the image appears on the film and runs a hand through his freshly dyed hair. Things are good, Kouyou thinks, and this time he knows it’s true. 

Things are good. Takanori calls him up a couple days later and invites him for lunch. They meet up for dinner, and they go to the movies, and Takanori still comes to watch the game when Akira is no longer sick. He shows no interest in the sport and complains at every enthusiastic outburst, but he stays the whole time, exchanging banter and slowly sipping an intensely coloured virgin cocktail. On occasion Kouyou finds himself wondering why Takanori won’t drink alcohol. He wonders if Takanori is sensitive the same way Akira is, or if he just doesn’t like losing himself in drink the way Kouyou does.

The game is nearing its end when Takanori leans across the table and speaks in a low voice meant only for him, “Want to come over to my place tonight?”

It’s an invitation clear in its intentions, and Kouyou does want to. He doesn’t know if it’s a good idea, and he’s pretty sure he didn’t feed the cat enough to last until morning. But the offer is tempting, and it’s been so long since he fled from Yutaka’s bed, and he thinks he is ready if that’s the direction his night is heading. So he says yes and ignores the way Akira looks at him as they tell their friends goodbye.

Takanori’s apartment is sparse, compared to his own. It feels larger, but maybe that’s just because it’s neater, more modern than what he is used to, even though the kitchen is so tiny Kouyou wonders if he even manages to cook anything in it. But the living room is large, and Takanori leads him to a plush velvet couch before getting two elegant glasses from a cupboard. Then he pops open a bottle of wine, rich and deep and red.

He doesn’t like to drink, he tells him when Kouyou asks, but he enjoys a glass of wine in good company. 

“Football isn't good company?” Kouyou challenges, and Takanori swirls his glass slowly, not needing to consider his answer before he answers, no. The fans are loud, and the bar is cramped, and he has no interest in the sport.

“But I’m interested in you,” he adds, and Kouyou feels himself flush. It’s embarrassing. He drinks his wine too fast in order to hide it, almost forgetting to savour the taste as Takanori chuckles next to him. The night goes on. Kouyou feels himself getting drunker, and Takanori gets bolder as he too starts to lose his inhibitions, a hand coming to rest on his knee and slowly creeping further up his thigh. Kouyou doesn’t even mind. Not when Takanori is listening to his stupid stories and his laugh is lovely and makes Kouyou feel like singing, even though he knows he sings terribly. Takanori takes another sip of his wine. When Kouyou reaches for his own glass, he finds it empty, but Takanori’s mouth is soft and wine-stained, so Kouyou reaches for him instead. 

He realizes a moment too late that they never kissed until now, not truly, but before he can pull away and apologize, a hand weaves into his hair.

“I was wondering when you would do that,” Takanori murmurs afterwards, and his hand trails down to the back of Kouyou’s neck and stays there, warm and comfortable like a well-worn collar. He tells himself not to doubt when he feels his nerves spiking, because the hand is soft and small and nothing like Yutaka’s at all, and he wants this. He really does. 

When Takanori pulls him encouragingly towards away from the couch, he follows. The bedroom is small, and cluttered, and Takanori doesn’t bother to close the door behind him. There is no reason to do so, not in the privacy of his own home, and Kouyou tells himself he isn’t anxious. He figures if he repeats it enough times in his head he’ll manage to convince himself.

When Takanori starts pulling his clothes off he takes his time to fold them neatly rather than throwing them carelessly to the floor the way Kouyou expects him to. He doesn’t have a closet in his room, and Kouyou only has a moment to wonder where all the clothes he has seen Takanori wear over the past months go before Takanori pulls open a door to reveal a walk-in closet, and Kouyou loses track of the thought. He follows Takanori inside and finds himself enamoured with the little room, running his hand across a rack of shirts to feel the fabric against his skin. He has always enjoyed fashion, loved to dress up and feel good in the way only a good outfit can. Takanori must be living the dream, he thinks, before he remembers what Takanori told him about the workings of the industry. How you have to design what sells, rather than what you want.

He wonders what kind of things Takanori would create if given free reign as he pulls a silk scarf from a drawer and loops it around his neck, and there is a slight flush to Takanori’s cheeks as he pulls at the scarf, setting it to elegantly drape Kouyou’s bare shoulders instead. “Fuck, you’re hot as hell,” he says breathily, eyes big and dark and words not slurred at all as he trails a hand along Kouyou’s jawline. “If only you’d be my model.”

The lips on his own are warm and eager, and Takanori’s bed is too soft under his thighs, and he’s still wearing the scarf. He imagines what Takanori looks like, wearing it, and where it came from. Maybe it’s a keepsake from his life before they ran into each other at the convenience store, or maybe he bought it recently. Maybe it’s even something he himself designed. Kouyou finds himself wondering if Takanori plans to let it hang from his elbows for much longer, or if he’ll pull it up and around his eyes, instead. Or maybe his wrists. He entertains the thought for a moment too long and is only made aware that he’s stopped responding when Takanori pulls away.

“Kouyou?” Takanori asks, and the note of concern in his voice is so palpable that Kouyou can’t stand it. He closes his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because he knows he can’t do this, not tonight, not anymore. He doesn’t even know what changed. Doesn’t know why he feels so weak, because he wants Takanori’s touches, longs for them. “I should probably go.” 

Takanori doesn’t ask him to stay. He doesn’t move to keep him there when Kouyou stands from the bed and moves out of reach. “You don’t need to apologize to me,” he only tells him gently, and Kouyou doesn’t answer. He lets the silk scarf drop to the floor and throws his clothes back on, lets Takanori follow him to the door to let him out, asking, “Will I see you again?” 

When Kouyou comes home he doesn’t even remember answering. He only remembers panicking, and fleeing, and pulling his knees up to his chest. He must have ruined it for sure this time. And he doesn’t even know why he left.

The next morning he wakes in his bed feeling like shit. The cat is yowling in his face for him to get up, and there is a mild headache throbbing in his skull that he first thinks is a hangover but is probably dehydration. She’s only distressed because he forgot to fill her bowl after coming home. Kouyou grimaces and tells her sorry, and she meows loudly as she circles him while he gets her food. He has only just put the bag back in its cupboard when he hears his doorbell ring. 

Takanori knows where he lives. He’s walked him home on several occasions, and he was worried when Kouyou ran away last night, so it’s probably him at the door. Alternatively, Akira somehow heard about what happened and has come to check up on him, but that seems unlikely, because Akira doesn’t come unless invited, and Kouyou never remembers to invite him over. He’s foolish and forgetful like that, always forgets that his apartment is his own and that Yutaka isn’t around to conquer the space anymore. Yutaka hated when Kouyou had guests, and only stayed if they got to be alone together, so eventually Kouyou stopped having them.

The doorbell rings again. Kouyou steels himself for a hard conversation with Takanori, but all the courage he’s managed to gather slips away from him as he finds himself facing Yutaka.

“I hope it’s not too early,” Yutaka says, like he has any business being there, like Kouyou has even heard from him in months, “I know you like to sleep in on weekends.”

“I like to sleep in every day,” is all Kouyou manages to say in response before he can stop himself. He looks down, unsure if he wants to open the door wider to let Yutaka in or slam it shut in his face. “Why are you here?”

Yutaka doesn’t answer him, not really. It’s been so long, I missed you, we’re still friends, aren’t we? And Kouyou can’t bring himself to argue. He steps aside when Yutaka comes in, watches him take his shoes off and set them on the shelf like he used to, hang his jacket up next to Kouyou’s. “You changed your hair,” he points out once he reaches the living room. “It’s nice.”

Kouyou lifts a lock of hair and twirls it self-consciously, all too aware that he just got out of bed and hasn’t even brushed his hair yet. Then again, he doubts Yutaka would mind, considering he has seen him like this more times than Kouyou can count. He doesn’t know what to do, now. Having Yutaka there again is a bit like inviting a ghost into the house, except that the ghost is still alive and never stopped haunting him, and the cat is sitting on the kitchen floor silently watching. Kouyou prays Yutaka doesn’t notice her. “Thanks,” he says listlessly, watching Yutaka take in the apartment for the first time in months. He wonders if it’s weird to see Kouyou’s space reclaimed, all the little traces of him packed up and removed. “Why are you here, Yutaka?”

“Because I know you wouldn’t have picked up if I called.” 

He’s right about that, Kouyou knows. He crosses his arms and pretends the room still feels his own when Yutaka is in it, and waits for him to continue only for Yutaka’s eyes to slide down to find the black shape on the floor, and he lets out a little gasp of surprise. “When did you get a cat?” he asks, crouching down and stretching a hand out to her. “He’s cute. What’s his name?”

“She doesn’t have one,” Kouyou answers, and he has to look away when she sniffs Yutaka’s fingers, allowing him to scratch her chin and leaning into the touch, her purr so loud that Kouyou can hear it from where he’s standing. Yutaka smiles. It’s wide and warm and gorgeous, just the same as how he used to smile at Kouyou. 

He bites his lip and forces himself to tear his gaze away, because it’s hard to look when that smile is the very one he’d first fallen in love with. He prays that Yutaka doesn’t want him back, because if he were to ask now, Kouyou would probably say yes, even after everything that has happened, everything he’s been through. Even after Takanori. “I thought you hated animals,” Kouyou says after Yutaka gets back on his feet. “You never wanted pets when we were together.”

“That’s not true,” Yutaka says, “What gave you that idea? You haven’t eaten yet, right?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s opening cupboards and pulling out ingredients, pausing only momentarily when he sees the camera and choosing not to ask about it. “You really need to get more groceries, Kouyou. I hope your kitchen isn’t always this sparse.” 

He wants to tell Yutaka to stop, because it’s not his home and it never was, but anything that comes out of his mouth will probably just lead to an argument. That, or Yutaka will just ignore him. Kouyou doesn't know which is worse. So he says nothing and lets Yutaka cook for him like he used to all those months ago while the cat paces noisily around Yutaka in the hopes that he’ll throw her something, and Kouyou thinks back to Takanori’s kitchen, remembers how tiny and clean and impractical it is. He finds himself wondering if Takanori ever cooks anything at all.

They don’t talk as they eat together. He doesn’t dare to break the silence he has grown so accustomed to, and it seems Yutaka has the same idea, but the food is just as good as he remembers from when they were still together. It had been a perk of their relationship, one he wants to say he doesn’t miss but realizes now that yes, he does.

It’s only once their plates are empty that Kouyou dares to speak up. “You didn’t answer me,” he reminds him. “When I asked why you’re here.”

“I wanted to call.”

“You said.”

There’s a beat. “We left a lot of things unsaid, didn’t we?” Yutaka tries, and Kouyou grimaces. Of course they did. They never talked things out because they weren’t able to, because Yutaka didn’t let him speak and he didn’t want to hear what Yutaka had to say, and they always managed to find something to disagree on. But he doesn’t want to fight anymore. He’s too tired, and it’s been too long, and it’s easier to say nothing than to risk another fight. So instead he just nods, because it’s not like what Yutaka is saying is untrue.

The silence stretches endlessly between them even as the cat meows, her tail rubbing against Kouyou’s leg. He throws her a scrap of food.

“Did you get rid of my things?”

Kouyou doesn’t look up. He wants to say yes, but the truth is he didn’t, because Yutaka’s photos are still sitting in his living room, folders shoved out of sight under the couch. He wants to say yes, but Yutaka can catch him in a lie so easily. “Most of it,” Kouyou says. “I kept your pictures.”

“Why?”

He doesn’t know what to answer. His nerves spike as he searches for the words, and he finds himself wondering what Yutaka will say next, imagines that he’ll ask for the folders back, and the thought of those pictures being out of his hands – the pictures Yutaka took of him during their relationship in a place where Kouyou has no control of them – it terrifies him. So instead he changes the subject, gestures to the counter where the camera is still sitting, three pictures left in the teller. “Do you want it back?”

Yutaka gives him a long look. “It was a gift,” he says. “I always intended for you to keep it.” Then he gets up, grabs the camera anyway. It looks perfect in Yutaka’s hands, like it was meant for him, and as he checks the teller he says, “I’m surprised you’ve used it at all. I didn’t think you would.” 

“I just wanted pictures to hang up at work.”

It sounds like an excuse even to him, but Kouyou doesn’t know what the full truth is, so it doesn’t feel like a lie. He picks the cat up from where she has crouched down on the floor and holds her to his chest, a warm comfort that settles easily in Kouyou’s arms as he realizes something he hadn’t before. “I needed a reminder.”

Yutaka considers him, camera in hand, but says nothing. Leaning against the counter he watches Kouyou scratch the cat behind the ears and lets him speak. “To not let it happen again. To not… let you happen again. I kept the pictures to remind myself that I deserve more than what you ever gave me.”

The words are heavy from his tongue, but they feel true. He doesn’t look at Yutaka as he speaks, keeping his attention on the cat. 

“I’m just sorry I didn’t realize that sooner.”

The shutter clicks. Yutaka’s eyes are sad, but he is smiling as he pulls a freshly printed film from the camera, and Kouyou knows there are just two pictures left in the teller, now. 

Yutaka is the first to speak. “You know, when I said I wanted us to remain friends, I meant it at first,” he says, and Kouyou doesn’t dare to breathe. He only sits there and waits for the inevitable, lets the cat jump out of his lap as he waits for Yutaka to take root in his home and his heart and never let go, and he wonders if he will be able to tell Yutaka no. If he’ll be able to see Takanori again after this. 

“I thought we could go back to the way things used to be. I’ve missed you every day since you left, you know.” Yutaka sighs, then, trailing a large palm along Kouyou’s jaw, the same way he always used to. “But you’re so much happier without me.”

He opens his mouth to argue. Wants to say that it’s not true, that he can’t possibly be happy when he has felt so empty for so long, when he fucked it up so badly with Takanori and ran from his bed. But Yutaka has a photographer’s eye. He has always been able to see parts of Kouyou that he himself never has been able to. 

And Yutaka, damn him, has such a beautiful smile when he strokes Kouyou’s cheek one final time. “I always knew that we were never good for each other,” he says gently, truthfully, “but I have always been selfish, and I wanted to ask if you’d let me come back. But I think it’s better for us both if I say goodbye to you, Kouyou.”

The picture Yutaka took of him is left on the kitchen table. He doesn’t ask to keep it, or the folders under the couch, just pets the cat and walks away. Kouyou doesn’t follow. Yutaka lets himself out, and when he is gone there is an unfamiliar sense of closure washing over Kouyou. Last they were in the same room together, Yutaka wasn’t even conscious. Kouyou hadn’t even waited for him to wake up, just jotted words of apology down on a note and fled without looking back. Without saying goodbye.

He figures there is a part of him that will always love Yutaka. And despite his sloppy clothes and unruly hair, the picture is good. He can’t call it beautiful, but Yutaka must have seen something of value as he watched Kouyou speak with a cat in his arms and a revelation on his tongue, something that he himself cannot see but thinks must be worthy of keeping. So he does. He slips the picture into his wallet to carry with him wherever he goes, and when a crumpled photo drops to the floor, the bitter, empty grief he had felt for so long is no longer there. It’s a picture from their last Christmas together, one Kouyou had completely forgotten was even there. The film is creased where it has been folded, and Yutaka’s smile looks beautiful, and Kouyou doesn’t miss him. Instead he smooths the photo out and slides it carefully into the plastic sleeve of one of Yutaka’s folders.

Takanori’s voice is worried when Kouyou calls him afterwards, a raspy quality to it like he has barely woken up. They talk. Kouyou asks if he wants to come over, then takes a shower, brushes his hair, and wears the sweater Takanori picked out for him. He feels refreshed and ready by the time the doorbell rings, and when he opens the door Takanori for once looks more a mess than him, but the silk scarf from last night is hanging from his throat. There is something recognizably anxious in his face as Kouyou lets him in, but it’s wiped away the instant he spots the cat that has come to investigate.

“I was wondering when I would get to meet you,” Takanori murmurs as he bends down to let her sniff at his fingers. “You are very cute.”

“You knew about her?”

“Of course. There’s always cat hair on your clothes.”

Kouyou makes them coffee and they sit in the kitchen where Yutaka had been not long ago and talk softly to one another. Takanori is less groomed than usual, as though he threw his clothes on in a hurry instead of meticulously taking his time getting ready like Kouyou is certain he normally would. He figures it’s rude to mention, but Takanori looks nice like this, more homely.

When he rests a hand on the table, Takanori reaches for it, and Kouyou thinks that things will be alright after all.

“I’m sorry about what happened last night.”

Takanori only squeezes his hand, says, “You already told me. And I already told you it’s okay.”

“But it’s true,” Kouyou insists, “I wish I hadn’t run. I wanted to stay, and I’m sorry that I left.”

The cat is staring at them from her place on the floor, her yellow eyes large and round and almost hypnotized. Kouyou wonders what it is she’s seeing. If she can see the ghost of Yutaka at the table, or if Takanori has replaced his presence completely. “I was the one who messed up, you know,” Takanori assures him. “Besides, I think you say sorry too often for your own good, Kouyou.”

He’s probably right about that. When he looks down at the cat again she meows up at him, her teeth a small flash of white, and Takanori chuckles. It’s a good sound, one Kouyou has grown to love.

“Hey there, kitty,” Takanori says to her. “Sorry we’re ignoring you.” When Kouyou goes to put their empty mugs away he finds that she has jumped into Takanori’s lap and made herself comfortable. “Guess I won’t be moving anytime soon. What’s your name?”

There is such a gentle set to his lips while he pets her that Kouyou doesn’t even realize he’s reached for the camera before the shutter snaps closed, and both Takanori and the cat startle a little at the sound. One picture left. “Sorry,” Kouyou apologizes as he pulls the picture free, and Takanori laughs.

“You named your cat ‘sorry’?”

“Of course not,” Kouyou says defensively, because it’s not a name, it’s just his habit of apologizing for every perceived slight – but Takanori is grinning, and the cat is staring at him, her eyes relaxed and slowly sliding shut as Takanori scratches her ear. “I didn’t name her that. Not on purpose. Sorry isn’t a name.”

“Of course not,” Takanori says, but he doesn’t sound like he believes him. “What’s her name, then?”

Kouyou hesitates, knowing he has no good answer; for all his attempts Kouyou still hasn’t succeeded in naming his cat, despite the many months he’s had her, and everything she has done for him. “I never named her,” he admits eventually, and part of him expects Takanori to laugh, or berate him, or–

But Takanori doesn’t do that. He just smiles as the cat purrs against his fingers, and when Kouyou looks down the image has appeared. It’s beautiful, he thinks, the moment before him frozen and preserved on the laminated film. 

“Or maybe I did,” Kouyou says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one day i'll write something where Kai isn't terrible. meanwhile Aoi doesn't even exist in this story. sorry buddy.
> 
> thank you for reading. ❤


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